moving from the visionary's imagination into view that all of us may learn to see further

20100401

hOLy CHaoS ~ Emerging Visions #17 ~ April 1, 2010

"Universe" (c) Robert Donaghey

"Aquaphobia 15" (c) Gabe Marquez

"Orch2" (c) Robert Donaghey

The Stag.

'I approve of my son's actions'says the mother of the eighteen year old suicide bomberwho, working as a waiter for six months in the small Israeli restaurant,took the lives of nine people, including his ownand injured scores of others.

'I cannot forgive the murderer of my daughter,'says the woman vicar whose only child was killedin a London Underground bomb-blast,no longer preaching in church but working withdisabled children,unable to reconcile her calling with her pain and rage.

'When I get out of here I will fuck your mothers!'screams the illegal Algerian immigrant to the police officersrestraining him as he struggles to resist a strip searchafter being arrested for shoplifting on Oxford street.

'Naturally,' says the Prime Minister'there will be a full public enquiry into the matter,although I'm sure,' he smiles winningly at the camera,'my esteemed colleaque, in whom I have every confidence,will be fully exonerated...'

'Come along darling,' pleads the exasperated young mother to her son'You tied both your shoe-laces yesterday, didn't you?If you don't hurry up we'll be late for school again- the bus is due in five minutes!'

Blown on crisp spring winds redolent with saltand fresh green grassa thousand spores are blown inland towards the pensive mountainseach one laden with a myriad dreams (although they are no burden).On a rocky promontory overlooking the valleya proud young stag momentarily surveys the slow winding progressof a bright red bus along the road beside the riverbefore catching the scent of his mateand vanishing into the greenery to find her...

Copyright Willowdown

"Rain" (c) Robert DonagheyMidsummer’s Eve

When half the world was wildwoodAs wolves howled in Wolvescote daleAnd naked virgins prayed to Orion.The village shaman sat in awed silenceWatching Swifts and Swallows hushedLost in deep chasms of thoughtLonely, intuitive and afraid.

He saw how times could mergeLike seas slipping into oceansHow distant worlds of ice and fireWould tumble from the skyAnd torches would melt in the moonlight.

He saw men scramble into holesFor lead like fossilized mothers milkA last, loveless bear, stumble into oblivionAnd wolves disappear into maps.

He saw Oceans grey and lifelessAs listless as mercuryLapping on still and barren shoresBeyond the desperate still bulkOf the final stranded whale.

He had visions of interminable warA child of eighteen summers slainIn a field of blood red poppiesA farmer passing with his ploughEyes fixed on the furrowed trench ahead.

And he saw mankind plunge into darknessVision blurred by conscious thoughtDreams buried, strangled at birthAnd the moon-muse turned to dust.

John Stocks

"Apocalyptic Mary" (c) Clancy CavnarRose Petals in a Dark Room

By Michael Lee Johnson

I walk in a mastery of the night and lightmy money changers walk behind methey are fools like clowns in a shadow of sin,they’re busy as bees as drunken lovers,Sodom and Gomorrah before the salt pillar falls.

In a shadow of red rose petalsdrunken lovers walk changing Greek and Romancurrency to Jewish or Tyrian money-they are fools, all fools, at what they do.

Everyone’s life is a conflict.

They are my lovers and my sinnersI can’t sleep at night without themby my bed or the sea of Galilee.Fish in cloth nets are my friends and my converts.I pray in my garden alone; while all the restwho love beside me sleep behind their innocence.The rose is a tender thorn compared to my arrestand soon crucifixion.

It is here the morning and the night come together,where the sea and the land part;where the building crumblesand I trust not myself to them.

I am but a poet of the ministry,rose petals in a dark room fall.Everyone’s life is a conflict.But mine is mastery of light and nightand I walk behind the footsteps of no one.

-2007-Michael Lee Johnson

(c) Little Lightening Bolt

Creed

In Sunday School I learn that when I dieI'll live forever if I believe thatJesus is the Son of God and died formy sins. I want to raise my hand and askWhat happens if I don't believe but I'mafraid, or maybe too smart, or fearand brains are the same thing. And what aboutpeople who never heard of Jesus? Dothey go to Hell? And if I don't find themand give them the Good News do I go toHell, too? I don't understand religionbut I'm only 9. I don't want to dieat all, to tell the truth. Heaven sounds keen

but it's not comic books and baseball gamesand Batman twice a week on TV--and in color--or slot-car racing sets orthe Hardy Boys or Johnny Unitasor the Beatles or high-rise handlebarson a bicycle or my dog when helearns a new trick or Saturday morningcartoons or no school because of snow orvisiting cousins in Alabama orhaving them visit us here in Georgiaor chocolate cake with chocolate ice creamor passing a test when I thought I'd flunkedor laughing so hard in the lunchroom thatmilk comes out of my nose or the last dayof school first day of vacation.If it's better than any of these then

Heaven sounds wonderful and sign me up.If it's better than all these togetherthen it's probably too good for the likesof me. And I don't want to love Jesusjust to get better than what I have now.That's just like crucifying Him againand once was plenty. I'll pray about it

tonight before I go to sleep, if Idon't forget, like I did last night, andjust say the Lord's Prayer and God-bless-thisand God-bless-that and suddenly it's dayagain, an answer to a prayer Ididn't even finish, let alone start.Sometimes I believe and sometimes I don'tand you can't get much more faithful than that.

Wailing at a divisive wall in the name ofhumanity, freedom,chaotic prophecies whispering,imprinting reign of Hell uponmodern Earth.Policy statements flyin protective formation"We can not give in tothe enemy."

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

"Massive War Against Sad Ripu" (c) Marthana Yusa

(c) C. Cambria

CREATION MYTHS

1.

A black-legged tick climbed up a long stalk of grassin the Santa Cruz mountains, as my father and I walkedthrough Almaden Quicksilver Park last October.Moved two legs at a time, lost its grip, fell,climbed, lost its grip, like a man alternately acceptingand refusing the same gift. The Quicksilver mineswere opened a year before James Marshall discoveredpieces of gold in the tailrace of a lumber mill.The mines were already known to the Ohlonefor their cinnabar, which they used as adornment.Mercury, that dangerous changeling. The pneuma ofthe alchemists. And what Taoists call yin.

It is also used to extract gold from ore, which made itexpensive.

2.

Listened to a Buddhist monkwith a Brooklyn accent on the car radioon the drive over the hill talk aboutthe ten paramitas--generosity, the giving of one'sself. Passed a cemetery with gravestonesknocked down, ivy growing throughthe white-picket fences. And continueddown a ridge, along a narrowpassageway through black oak,

passed an "Out-of Bounds" signwhich both of us pretended not to see--the joyof permissible chaos. Thought ofdetritus pathways, "delayed and complexways to pass food through webs," "feedthe many things that feedan owl." The entire worldwas covered in water. All excepta single mountain, Mount Diabloin the north. Coyote, Eagleand Hummingbird were all up there,hunkered down. When the waterreached their toes, eagle picked them up,flew them to Sierra de Gabilan, near Fremont.Coyote was sentto check if the world was dry.And it was. He was given a wife;and she learned how to bearchildren. Humans are the descendants of Coyote.

copyright Scott C. Riley

(c) Little Lightening Bolt

I do not know the real chaos, the original chaos, the chaos after the destruction. Chaos appears to be in my mind when I do not, have not recognised the hidden order. The hidden harmony and rhythm and breath. there is one spirit that goes through the growth of all living. and Love, Love, Love ... that brings chaos in the ordered, the established, the well known, the comfortable ... But then? WHAT?????????"Violette" (c) Alkistis Wechsler

In a Moment

Who am I to becomewhen my stories are obliterated?When I awakennaked and unarmedupon a shadowedrocky trail?It's not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies.I want the armorconsistent with my role,both the lessons in the real andthe comforting warm arms of happy home.

It's more than I can bear.I crack wide open.The scenery means nothing,I hide inside my wound.There's nothing left to bind the bleeding.I am open to the worldwhile intently blind.

UnseeingI sit upon a hillside countingraincloudswaiting for the lightening to strike.

(c) Feb. 5, 2006 Laurie Corzett

(c) Sofia BogdanovichIn Her Bloodstream: The Song Unbroken

Eater of Souls,Pale Huntressof the World’swarm Heartwaters…They come!Changeless, yet ever moving,relentlessly forward,Singing of Ancient Wisdom,and the endlessCircle of Life and Death…

The nose never lies,though our sensesmay deceive us.Yet we were never bornjust to doubtour given purpose.Season your sacred hungerwith the spice of keen senses well honed;the Patience and Awarenessof a true hunter wisely throned…and we will guard you,body mind and soul,through every journey you take,all you createor unmake.Mind well the wordsyou unleash upon the World,lest you leave torn soulsbleeding in your wake.

We reveal wisdomhidden within your darkest cornersby hardened indecision and rigid fear.Know the light and dark of Selfthat you may best progress,and spiritually steer,rather than merelytenaciously survive.Thus is forgiveness realized,and innocence revived!

Listen to the voices of the Ancestors,Singing down through the years…their gathered wisdomwaiting only for a listening ear.Heed too the guiding voice Within!Read clearly the flow of Life around youand navigate the World;knowing best when to speak,when to move in silence,and when to unleash your righteous wrath.None may sway the diligentfrom their chosen path!”

Crossing the filigree bridge of fire and ice that separates Valhalla from earth, I see the slow gyre of the seasons worming its sinuous thread across the thin chasm of the waking world: hours, days, weeks, years reflected on the luminous shells of the inner planets, the electrical aurora of coloured pictures depicting all the hopes, dreams and aspirations of women and menflickering in pastel hues, shimmering particles of dust and ice brought to life by cosmic fire,the shared and individual memories of the great and the insignificant, their passions and fears, their tedious hours, the unfolding, budding and fruiting of plants, animals and men, the joy and terror of an infant's birth, the opening of a flower to catch spring rain, a five year old's fear of flickering shadows across his window at night, the shared laughter of lovers, the brief, hallucinatory span of an insect's life, the intense intoxicating thrill of the predator's kill,the torment and ecstacy of suicides and saints, each image straining to present itself - some with greater force or clarity than others - some seeking to merge with other images, some to expand brightly, some to shrink away, each straining to tell some story, straining to survive, straining for release, straining, straining to briefly preserve or surrender their existenceto the cold, encroaching entropy of dark and empty space...

I see: an old woman lying in a hospital bed, kept alive by tubes and machinery, dreaming of a red-haired boy who kissed her under a willow tree when she was only fifteen and wearing a sky-blue dress with pretty yellow flowers...I see: a bird fly into an aeroplane's wing, a comet collide with a blue and green jewel, destroying four thousand years of tentative civilisation; I see butterflies mating in a pool of molten gold, I see a young man lovingly fasten the clasp of a silver chain about a young girl's neck, the brilliant blue gleam of an amethyst at her throat.I see acts of generosity and acts of terrorism, I see great beauty and I see blind error; I see chance and disorder emasculate reason... I see fury and stupidity wrestling in the brain of manI see greed and hatred devouring the hearts of beautiful women, I see God and the Devil ritualistically exchange masks like brightly painted wooden figures in some demented clockmaker's baroque masterpiece where a mechanical moon chases a mechanical sun, where the Angel of the Day of Judgement chimes every midnight and mechanical sheep bleat at noon as hour follows hour in mechanical rote and a great iron pendulum divides all space...

Passing the asteroids passing Jupiter, Ganymede, Io, the flickering images blur, the faces, the passions, the dramas lose their individuality as the Archetypes emerge, numinous portraits morphologically generated and sustained through aeons of human and pre-human evolution - the faces and attributes of the Gods: the Wizard, the Dark Brother, the Priestess, the Hierophant, the Wheel, the Slain God. But nothing is fixed - fluidity is still the rule, the images blur and run into each other. Occasionally a Gautama, a Blake, a Dylan, a Mother Teresa, a Hitler, a nameless orphan girl, an intelligent chimpanzee washing sweet potatoes in the sea, adds some new colourful nuance, some new taste or flavour that is taken up by the rest, a new twist of the spiral that is amplified briefly, augmenting and subtly changing the whole before it too is absorbed into the greater flow.

Passing the entwined rings of Saturn I see the races merge, the distinctions between male and female blur, I see the faces of friends and strangers as one, I see new races, new friends, new strangers; I see angels and devils, some of them remarkably resembling the invisible playmates of children's fantasies, some of them part biogenetically engineered neo-plasm and part nano-technologically enhanced metal and flesh, unfurling photo-sensitive wings to ride the sensitive stellar winds, delicate sentient butterflies impregnating and being impregnated by the exotic scents and aromas of new planets.

I see avatars and devils, demons and bodhisattvas. I see the face of the Beloved beckoning from the distant galaxies and nebulae. She wears the face of Jesus, of Krsna, of prophets, seers and sages throughout the ages. Ah! she wears the face of my own true Beloved as we wander hand in hand along a sunlit shore. I see Her signature written across all the stars, strands and webs of white fire emanating from and linking celestial orb to celestial orb until all space is one blazing white field of light (but still it bears a human face!) I turn to kiss her but already She is gone. There is pain and the pang of separation but then that too is gone for I too am also absorbed and there is only YOU meditating in self-awareness. There is only bliss and consciousness penetrating and permeating an ocean and a thousand million droplets of Ocean made up of ItselfOcean of LoveOcean of LoveOcean of Love

Whitchurch, Hampshire and Paco, Manila 95/97

Copyright Willowdown

(c) Little Lightening Bolt

A Sojourn to Far Places

Full Fathom Five thy Father lies(Ariels's song from The Tempest)William Shakespeare

Full fathom five thy Father lies,Of his bones are Corrall made:Those are pearles that were his eies,Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a Sea-changeInto something rich & strange

Manjag the Metamystic MetaphysicianDecides to attend the Cocktail Party for the Furies

He fingersThe ivory inlayed invitationProperly appointed in silver trimAnd sealed with the most exotic sealing waxIt must have materialized in the earthen tureenin the surge of the NightNow no one knows just exactly how such invitations are wont to appearunexpected and unheraldedBut everyone knowsThat only those invitedMay attend the Cocktail Party for the Furies

Manjag never attends such partiesOften finding himself insteadIn distant and curious placeswalking beneath the cathedrals of scarlet and amber in the woodsor sailing the unseen currents in the skiesBut he has heard the talesWe’ve all heard the tales . . .And it can only be guessed why he decided to go

But what to wear . . .What to sayWhat to carry in the pocketsor leave in the Chest of Many WondersWhether to go hungry or satisfiedShould one conform to the customsOr try new ways . . .

We’ve all heard the tales . . .

Few have ever survived such partiesAnd those who haveAre never quite returned the sameAnd you just have to wonder whyOnly those invitedMay attend the Cocktail Party for the FuriesManjag the Metamystic Metaphysician

But Firstan Introduction

(c) Sofia Bogdanovich

Current speculation has it that Manjag Entaphulus was born in far CaleiberieraOr The Eastern Land of Xundenda in the year of the GloamThere is even some conjecture that he might have roots in the Land of Blue GingerAll of this is hearsay and idle speculation of coursebecause there are no records

The records do show that he achieved high marks in Metaphysicsin the ivy encrusted halls of Herseck DeKammersAnd while he was not first in his classHe was graduated with honors in the study of Metamysticismfrom TuzecaThe title of his Thesis:“It's Not So Much About Learning the Truth;It's About Proving Yourself Right”A Tome that caused a bit of a stirIt is a matter of record the faculty were divided in their evaluationSome claiming it was an inspired work of biting sarcasmOthers cited the documented facts as irrefutable proofUnable to resolve the issue of the document’s intentThey decided to award him an advanced degree and rid the campus of him

It is generally said by those who knew himthat Manjag had the unnerving habit ofTransmuting Reality into Metaphorand Metaphor into RealityHe was known to twist Light out of DarknessConjure songs out of memoriessongs filled words dark and trueIn addition the Magician had a small talentfor making up the most marvelous liesAnd his lieslike all really good liesHad at their nucleus a kernel of profound TruthIn some ways his lies were more akin to the underlying Truth of the Universethan most of the facts of everyday life

To the best of the recordsHe never tried to pass any of his lies off as truthBut with a man such as thisone can never be absolutely certain

The Magician meets The Pretender

The Cocktail Party of the Furies

Constance met him at the doorreminding him to remove his sandalsShe took his cloak and asked for his staffThe Magician used sleight of hand to sequester the staff in a hidden pocketSaid he’d be naked without itConstance smiledthe leaves in her hair undulating in the breeze

Sabote turned to regard the new arrivaland immediately slipped on her “Oh, its only you . . .” faceThe Magician pulled a rabbit out of her eareveryone laughed

Anxi reprimanded her sisterreminding her that they were civilized and as suchWere required by code and custom to welcome all invited guestsThe tentacles that covered her torso enfolded the MagicianHe extracted himself by offering hera tiny ornate box of candy he had pulled out of the air

Horrence clapped and made the most annoying noisesShe tried to grab him by the nape but succeeded in only grasping his shoulderDangling him from her pincer she held him up for all to seeThe Magician waved to them

"Separation Anxiety" (c) C. Cambria

Masks within Masks

Alpha Contact

The Cocktail Parties of the Furies always havethe most interesting musicAnd the décor . . .

The invited guests sashay through fantastic landscapesAwash in the brilliant colors of MidnightThe low dull thudding of the Infraredsthe shark toothed ultra violetsThey eat the most peculiar thingsand are encouraged to wear very strange hats

"Alice" (c) Brian King

The Magician is holding an azure drinkfilled with twinkling starsOff to his rightThe Pretender glides through shadow and shadeHer gowna whisp of gossamera hint of feather and downShe seldom turns to look face onBut has seen everything in the roomShe seldom stops to talk at lengthbut had spoken to each and every person there

If you’re lucky you might catchThe grace of a hand involved in a perfect gesturethe hint of a smileThe lilt of her voice

She flows through the room like waterAnd congeals where the Magician converses with a werewolfThe Magician is visibly unsettled by the beautiful womansuddenly standing before him

The Sojourn

Departures

They left in clear sight but no one saw them leaveThey walked across the fieldsWalked across flower dappled meadowsand oceans of golden wheat

And when they had walked a day and a halfThey came to the coast

As her foot hit the sand of the beachThe Pretender turned and regarded the MagicianHis eyes had taken the hue of the Seaand his beard had become the grey of winter skies

“Which way?”“My ship has a mind of its own and there is really no way to know.”“Oh what a lazy captain, that you let your ship steer itself.”“It is not a style I would suggest for everyonebut it has worked well for me.”“How shall we call this ship?”“It comes when it comes, perhaps patience is . . . ““Where’s the boat?”“There.”

And sure enoughJust cresting the horizonA tiny cyan ship coursed toward them against the tide

“Does it have a name?”“It is called the Heart.”

The ship was such that it was sometimes difficult to make out at a distanceIt could easily be mistaken for a graceful sea birdIt’s billowing sails could be clouds . . .

It moved onto the beach and sailed the sand to their feetThe Magician offered his hand and the Pretenderboarded the Heart of the Magician

Dropping the 1st mask

The Pretender decided that she would Like the Magicianin as much as she often made such decisionson the spur of the momentAnd as was her customShe took off her first mask saying:I will become youI will become your creationI will change my self into something elseso that you will never ever want for anything elseI will be everything you need so that you will never leave me

The Pretender opened her handopened everything but her eyes

"Angel2" (c) Brian King

Let me buy you with my sexLet me open my bodybut not my heartNoYou may not touch me thereNeverever there . . .I will show you everythingbut my soul

Dropping the 2nd mask

Conflict

The Pretender lay her hand beside his headAnd he fell backward into the grave she had dug the night before

Singing a dirge of mournful amusement she buried himAnd with no small satisfaction she noted his blank stareAs the dirt filled his mouth

But even as she walked awaybrushing the dirt from her handsThe Magician became dirtbecame EarthAnd as she watched flowers burgeoned from his gravespeaking his bloodOak trees around the grave lifted his arms and eyesAnd the Silent Green Engine lifted every part of him from his sequester

So before too longhe was once again standing before her

The Pretender focused the Sun on himAnd he began to crisp and fry about the edges

He sprouted tiny tongues of flame at every pointYet he did not flee but accepted the Cloak of Fire without comment

She screamed at his silenceCursing and reviling himtaunting himoffering him a cup of water

At the moment the Flame became unbearableAnd she knew with absolute certainty that he would cry outHe began to dancedance within the flameAnd the Wind was the music

His flesh peeled away to become the DanceHis clotheshis deviceshis bonesBecame the Dance of FlameUntil there was nothing left but the Dance

When the Dance was spentas all dances must be spentWhen the last of the flames had danced awayThe ashes stirred and scatteredscattered and coalescedcoalesced and gathered into a gray man

So before too longhe was once again standing before her

Shrieking the Banshee Song above the WorldShe called down the Winds that twistthe winds that whirl

The cone of Destruction writhed like a headless snake seeking himThe funnel of the Whirlwind sought himAnd when at last the Maelstrom found himhe did not flee

Pieces of him were ripped from his fleshUntil nothing remained but a dervish of tiny bitsAnd yet within the Chaoswithin the frothing turbulenceHis pattern continuously reemergedBecause while the Magician was not indestructibleHe was not in fact solidThe Magician was a pattern that continuously reinvented itself

So before too longhe was once again standing before her

All the flesh had left the face of the PretenderRevealing the skull beneath the skinAll pretense had left her and fine cracks had began to appear in her countenanceBut with the last of her energies she summoned the Deep WatersSo that the full extent of the Seas crashed down on himAnd the whole of the World was drowned in her tears

Yet there appeared in the Skies above the WatersA rainbow half inand half out of the WaterAnd perched there was the MagicianRegarding her

Reaching out a hand to herA hand made of Fire and Watera hand made of Earth and AirA hand offering to help pull her from the waters of her own summoning

And the Magician smiled . . .

"Dreamquest" (c) Robert Donaghey

Dropping the 3rd mask

afterwords

The Pretender sinks

Its never like this in the storiesThis hurtsI lie downI am descended into the DarknessScreaming into the Darkness

At the threshold of this NightmareI meet the Dragon big as the WorldA thing of Darkness and MythA coiling of smoke and a river of razorThousands of razor teethA hunger that has eaten up all the WorldHunger that has eaten even itselfuntil only the mouth and the hunger remain

I am here above the abyssI run but run as women run in dreamsIt's coming up behind me and I turnI raise my weaponsAnd am cut to bitsI am falling into the abyss as dissociated bitsThe Dragon was fragmentedin the process of the struggle and bits of it also fallintermingling with bits of me

"Iron Dragon" (c) Brian King

The bits are sad they have lost controland can never be re-assembledThe bits are settling in total darknessthere are no longer boundaries between self and otherThe bits of dragon are interminglingwith the bits of what used to be meThe roots of green things from the World of Lightare burrowing down into this dark place rich with the debrisof what used to be meRoot tips that touch the parts of what were formerly medieI can not nourish themThere are worms burrowing through the muck lining the bottom of the abyssand when the worms eat the bits of meThey choke and dieThe worms decompose and become muck and rotThe currents of the waters stir the muckStir with torrential songsAnd where the songs touch the muck that used to be methey dieI am death incarnateand there is great peace in thissilence

The intervention of Bessemer

Definition of Terms

There is a Universal WisdomWritten in every element of the UniverseFor the purpose of this discussion let us adopt the term Loroisas a name for this WisdomWith the understanding that this Wisdom has, is and will be calledby any number of other names

It is the Anthropic aspect of LoroisThat is an expression of the Laws of Ten Dimensional Space/Timeand Quantum ChromodynamicsFor, the most incomprehensible attribute of the Universeis that the Universe is comprehensible

Within the Law is the description of the processesthat creates oppositesOpposites that mutually annihilate when they touchAnd within the same Law the Balancethat holds them so that they do not

It is only in the holding of this Balancethat this Universe continuesThe protons in the nucleus of all atomslong to escape one another because of electrostatic repulsionYet the Strong nuclear force holds them in placeAnd even when the electrons are in their zero energy stateThey do not fall into the Protonsdespite their electrostatic predisposition to do so

This Law of Balance dictates thatfor every Angel that is createda Demon must be dealt withAnd both of these shall occurIn every HumanAnd while one might think that they would mutually annihilatesometimes they don’t

For instance who has glimpsed an electronor felt a protonWho has seen these interactions decreed by the Law at playAnd yet who has not seen the effects

The energies exchanged across these boundariesAre of astronomical magnitudeand as long as the structure can channel themin a balanced fashionThe Silent Green Engine that lifts inert matter into therich dances called LifeFunctions

These energies can only be describes as chaoticAnd yet they are the source of all PatternWithin even the smallest of these interactionsthere is a characteristic matter/energy fingerprintUnique to every thingUnabridgeableinscrutableUndeniable

Something . . .Something movesSomething breaks the Perfect SymmetryCreating a place where something isAnd another where something is not

Resonant chords crash and build within this placesomewhere beneath the SeaCurrents and kelp throb in sympathetic cadenceInterweaving with long silk rags of siltAnd within the sound a self is borna unique selfStripped of all identityempty of all the things we mistake for selfDevoid of all thoughtYet a unique and sustaining self

And it hungers for BeingSilt and seaweed snakes writhe within the mixturetwisting back on themselvesKnotting into armshandsfingersThe world feels so smoothand cooland slickAbiding within the LawIt quivers

The Magician has not left the beachexcept to hunt for foodHe stands and watches as the tide rises and ebbsHe waits in fear and grief

Suddenly!There!In the shallowsShe fights to clear her lungsShe fights for the surface

She bursts into the lightcoughing and spitting

He drags her to the beachHis tears baptize herShe is reborn in his arms

"Burnt Offering" (c) Moe Holmes

Quixotic as ever

William C. Burns, Jr.

You have not lost your Innocence. It is simply buried in conditioning imposed upon you. Throw away the idea that there is no real magic in the world besides parlor tricks and a slip of the hand. Chuck those thoughts from your head of what adults and society told you about the ways of the world and how you should be. Drop all that you have learned from others and return to Innocence. The medicine card Faerie child is asking you to transform those thoughts you have been taught that they don’t really exist and return to Innocence. When did you stop singing, dancing, playing and using your imagination? Return to Innocence.... Cher Lyn

"Half Full" (c) C. CambriaWHO IS THAT IN THIS PICTURE?

I looked at the pictures of you as a child, a student, a parent, having fun, I cried and heaved with no control for your mystery

Who were you? Who were you, really, who were you? I never knew, did you?

I cried for the unknown, I cried for what did not happen, I cried for what was not achieved, I cried for the mystery, I cried for your misery, I cried for you and for me, I cried for life, I cried for not knowing

I do not know why, the sadness of not knowing and not growing was greater than the grief from your death, I cried for the mystery, I cried because you had no life, I cried because you did not know, I cried because you will never know, I cried because it can't be fixed, I cried for the mystery and your misery for eternity

So I want to know before I go, I must know before I go, I want to know who I am, I want to know who you are, I want to know that child over there, I want to know that crowd, I want to know every soul in this cemetery, I want to know all this before I go

I want no mysteries in the pictures, I want to live a life, I want no mysteries in the pictures, I want to know, I want you to know, I want no mysteries in the pictures

Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day. Or is that eternity by eternity? There's not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity. There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship. Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide. Perhaps for some of the more daring an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim, so that's alright. A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance.

There has been word sent down from time to time, messages in popping soap bubbles. No one is quite sure what they say, written in unfamiliar code, dripping from the watery former bubbles. Some take faith that since we have no soap or water, the fact of such material proves the surface is not far ahead. How far can bubbles fall before popping to release their secrets? Others suspect this phenomenon to be some sort of rain, a creature of sky, not surface.

We have always been upon the stairs. No one remembers any other existence. If there were surface below, from which we started our climb, there are no stories to describe it.

Sometimes some one will let go in disgust, give up on climbing to take a chance on a less strenuous eternal fall. We never hear them hit a bottom, only senseless screaming tapering off into distance, silence.

There is a myth, I don't know how I heard it. Perhaps subliminal messages are written upon stairs along the way; or it might have come as lyrics from the times of spontaneous singing. The myth claims there is a method of mindplay that can allow us to metamorph into birdlike beings who can open vestigial wings and fly swiftly beyond the stairway to wonders of land, sea, continents, oceans, possibilities beyond imagining.

I have attached my mind, all my will, to that one thought. I can almost feel my wings stiffening, getting ready to fly. But to fly, I will have to release my grip by grip on the stair, leap into faith that flight is even possible, and more importantly, possible for me.

Or is flying just another way to define falling?

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

"Transformation of Buddha" (c) Sonia Melnikova

To Wake

To wake without the hands of tomorrow's clock,the words of yesterday's narration, the whole heftof the personal Poof snockered away! Remainsof a morning shower, flecks of water where rain was.Then growth. A hibiscus of infinite petals, stamenand stems. Fragrant, extended seconds of presence.

Would that you were God, the consciouscreator in each apprehended linear segment . . . yes.To do the minutia without worry in your own kitchen!As Zen says: When you sweep, sweep. Oh the mercy, the ghostlyalchemy of not thinking. All one undoing of everythingin the mind. So to do without is more, is most.

(c) Deborah DeNicola

"Tai Chi The Inner View" (c) Clyde GraukeNew year's

though our mortal selvesmay be scarred by time, this worldwe march through is ageless

As we stare transfixedinto the eyesof the new year,the band plays on and on,music flowing easy likecool water from a spring.Glasses clinkabove gentle murmursin the sweet night air,as wisps of cigarette smokecurl slowly upwards,disappearing out of reachlike the yearjust pastand all those yearskept mutelyat the back of minds.Flashbulbs go off,and for a fleeting instantthe night has its sun,as our celebration is capturedsoundlessly –an image frozen on film,a vain attemptto haltthe quiet flow of time.Fireworks explode above our heads,the iridescent sparksblotting outthe brillianceof cold, silver stars.And after we close our eyesto the night,the choreography ofdancing lights remainsbehind our eyelidsas a fresh memory forms,a remembranceof time past and always passingwhile we perform this delicate balancing actupon the thresholdof now and then.

Morning, 100 words

In the morning, a low wind – a gentle murmuring, a quiet prayer offered up in the half-light. The heart stirs, carrying deep within its folds a blessing like a jewel too precious to be seen, too astounding in its beauty. A wistfulness even in the still and peaceful lane, a bittersweet acceptance like fingers upon an open palm, slowly uncurling, clinging on to nothing, joyful in the miracle of being. Yet a longing remains, willing the emergence of a new kind of dawn, a different splendour, a more intense glow. But for now: a warm breath; and a slow smile.